


A Day of Days

by maxbegone



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anxiety, Comfort, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Husbands, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25702219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/pseuds/maxbegone
Summary: “You’re allowed to have these days.”David will lay there beneath layers of blankets with a somewhat vacant stare, glassy-eyed as Patrick sits and runs a hand through his messy hair, promising with a kiss to his forehead that he’ll come home during lunch.Today is one of those days.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 32
Kudos: 221





	1. David

**Author's Note:**

> I had a day. Writing this was cathartic.

_“You’re allowed to have these days.”_

David has been telling himself that for years now. A mantra repeated right when he cracks his eyes open early in the morning - earlier than normal - and knows it’s going to be one of those days. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel some guilt in regards to it.

These are days where food is too much, where people are too loud, and work is just too exhausting. Days where his arms feel like lead and like every cell in his body is vibrating. 

Patrick knows David well enough to pick a bad day out from the get-go. Granted, sometimes the bad days start at three in the afternoon when things had been going well, and at the drop of a hat David’s mood shifts. 

But, Patrick knows his husband. He can tell by the look on David’s face or how he doesn’t react to teasing. David will lay there beneath layers of blankets with a somewhat vacant stare, glassy-eyed as Patrick sits and runs a hand through his messy hair, promising with a kiss to his forehead that he’ll come home during lunch. 

Today is one of those days.

David spent a good amount of time in the mirror rubbing his fingers over his cheeks, pulling at them, angling his jaw to memorize the structure, the sharpness. His eyes feel heavy and look sunken in the early light. He wants to jump out of his skin, really.

He tugs hard on his shirt and turns to exit, but Patrick’s leaning against the doorframe. 

His husband gives him a soft and knowing look, and David's shoulders drop. Patrick’s arms open wide for David to sink into, letting himself hiccup and swallow thickly through a wave of anxiety. Somehow, he’s guided back to bed where Patrick stands between his knees, nose buried in David’s dark hair as he whispers gentle affirmations.

“Lay down.” It’s said quietly, but David obliges, tucking himself well under the covers as Patrick sits beside. him.

“Is it anything specific?”

David grumbles out a, “No,” a long and heavy sigh accompanying it. 

“Can I get you anything?”

He doesn’t respond, instead he lets his eyes shut slowly. Patrick must take that as his cue to leave, because the bed shifts and the lights are out when his eyes reopen. 

He can’t pinpoint the cause, no bells are going off alerting David to a reason, and it’s not entirely abnormal. Sometimes his mind decides to go a bit haywire, and now that he knows what to look for, David isn’t scared half to death anymore.

David can hear quiet movements down in their kitchen below them as Patrick readies himself for work. He must drift off again, however, because the light outside has shifted slightly and the time on their bedside clock reads 10:00 A.M. 

He feels the weight of the world pressing into every bone in his body and every unfamiliar sound outside their home makes him jump; a truck driving past, a lawnmower kicking back down the street. 

He’s going to explode, and it’s enough to make him jump from the bed rush down to their living room where he begins to pace in a rigid line. He focuses on creaking of the old wooden floorboards under socked feet.

On one turn, he sees, haphazardly over the back of the couch, Patrick’s sweatshirt. 

David gathers it up in his arms as he continues on back and forth through the room, pressing his face into the soft grey fabric. He breathes in, the smell of his husband soothing his frayed nerves just slightly, but he keeps pacing in a numb motion until the front door opens.

A clatter of keys being set down and the soft thump of footsteps, Patrick appears in the room, his eyes big and round.

“What are you doing here?” David asks in a whisper as Patrick walks over.

“I put a sign on the door,” he replies simply, matching David’s whisper. “You’re my priority today.”

David musters up a smile, a weak one, and goes lax in Patrick’s arms. 

“Food?”

His response is a shallow sigh.

“Something light, David. Okay?”

“‘Kay.” 

Patrick deposits him on a barstool in their kitchen, making him a cup of peppermint tea and a slice of crusty sourdough with salted butter, un-toasted. 

Patrick navigates these days well, and David’s thanked him for that on several occasions. But it’s rare that Patrick closes the store _before_ lunch. 

“You’re sure nothing prompted this?” He leans across the counter, his own cup of tea in his hands.

“Just happens, Patrick,” is what David says as he pulls apart his bread into small pieces. It’s a control thing, lingering tactics from years ago that arise every so often.

Patrick nods in understanding because he really does, and doesn’t press any further. They stay there in silence until David slides his half-eaten plate away and his husband dumps the remnants in the trash.

He guides David to the couch and wraps him up. David still has Patrick’s hoodie in his arms, and one of hand slinks under David’s sleep shirt to trace lazy circles on his bare hip. 

Sometimes, on these rough days, David cries. Sometimes, on these days, David shakes and moves too quickly for his brain to keep up with. Sometimes, on these days, David sleeps for ten hours.

But Patrick is always there. He isn’t a cure-all, but he eases the blow, he makes things bearable. 

Right now, David feels less like he’s going to crawl out of his skin and more like Patrick is the glue holding him together. 

Patrick’s lips press into his hair, a quiet murmuring of, “Baby,” being enough for him to pull David’s attention toward him.

“I know you really don’t want to hear it,” he starts, and David’s already grumbling in mild protest, eyes closed. “But it’s just today. Take it by the hour, okay? I’ll be right here. You’re allowed to let it fester, you’re allowed to feel like this, David. Alright?”

“Yeah,” he replies quietly. “Thank you, Patrick.” 

His husband’s only response is to squeeze him tight, a firm pressing of arms against David’s shoulders that brings his racing heart rate down. 

“You’re allowed all kinds of days. Okay?”

David buries himself further into Patrick’s strong hold, and it’s enough to get him through this one day of many days. 


	2. Patrick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick handles his own days differently. Like with stress, he bottles it all up until he explodes. He doesn’t kick or scream, he doesn’t throw anything, but Patrick will stir quietly, barely even grumbling until his skin feels too tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After two days of no power, I'm finally able to post this! 
> 
> \--
> 
> [julienwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/julienwrites/pseuds/julienwrites) wrote a companion piece to this the other day called Can of Soda, which [you can read here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25713388)

_“You’re allowed to have these days.”_

He’s said that to David countless times and has heard David say it to himself just as frequent.

Patrick handles his own days differently. Like with stress, he bottles it all up until he explodes. He doesn’t kick or scream, he doesn’t throw anything, but Patrick will stir quietly, barely even grumbling until his skin feels too tight.

On these days, in the morning, he’ll toss and turn, sighing periodically until he can’t lay any longer. These are days where deep breaths feel choked, where his legs can’t stop moving, and as if the walls are closing in. They’re low days. 

David knows Patrick. He knows his husband well enough to pick them out. Whether it’s Patrick going abnormally quiet or arranging and rearranging things around the house or at work, David just knows. And Patrick will never say anything because he doesn’t want to be a burden.

Today is one of those days.

Patrick felt off from the moment he crawled out of bed. His heart was racing, his fingers were twitching as if they were trying to grab at some phantom thread, searching for something, _anything._ He’s dressed and ready to go before David’s even up. 

His husband is still buried beneath the comforter, a hand splayed out on Patrick’s empty side of the bed. Normally, Patrick wouldn’t fight the urge to crawl back in beside him and hold David a little longer, but today sitting still is nearly impossible. 

So he leaves, not for work, but for a run.

And Patrick _never_ runs, he usually hikes to clear his head, but he goes for it anyway. If he doesn’t move soon, he’ll burst.

So he runs, circling their block twice before choosing a different path up through town, passing town hall and the café until finally, _finally,_ the air leaves his lungs in a wheeze and he’s heaving on the front steps of the Apothecary.

Patrick has his elbows leaning on his knees as he tries to catch his breath when the crunching of tires hits his ears.

“Patrick.”

He squints up in the early morning sunlight and sees David, tall and handsome and somehow still impeccably dressed despite being in his pajamas, worrying his wedding band.

Patrick’s lips fall into that weak downturned smile, shifting just enough to give David some space to sit beside him, but he doesn’t. Instead, David reaches out and pulls Patrick to his feet. He stumbles into his chest, heaving as his husband’s arms wrap snug around him.

“What’s going on?”

A sigh. “I don’t know…” 

“Okay.” David’s hand brushes through his hair. “That’s okay. You’re sweaty.”

“I was running.”

There’s a beat and a long breath from David. “You never run,” he says knowingly.

“I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin,” he laughs wetly into David’s shirt, and his husband starts holding him tighter. Patrick breaths in, shallow.

He feels weak and a little nauseated.

“Well I’m not gonna let that happen.”

David’s lips press quick into the top of his head, and Patrick is soon being guided back to the car. He crosses the street, leaving Patrick behind momentarily to grab a carryout bag and cardboard tray from Twyla at the door of the café; muffins and a cup of Earl Grey, as it turns out.

“I called it in,” David confirms without question.

Patrick is deposited into the shower when they get back, rinsing off the dust and grime and sweat of his run. He drops the shampoo bottle twice due to his unsteadiness, a loud clatter echoing in the bathroom, and Patrick has to lean against the cool tile wall to compose himself for a moment. It’s as if he’ll break if he doesn’t. Patrick rushes to finish, the heated spray making him feel suffocated.

He dresses for comfort and makes his way back down only to find David hovering at their patio door with a thick blanket.

He follows him out to where a narrow lounger is set up in the cool morning air, their breakfast sitting on a small round table beside it.

Patrick’s eyes flit toward David warily but sits down anyway, making as much room as he can for two grown bodies to fit on the cushion. His heart is still racing and his hands are still shaking as he lays tucked into his husband’s side. 

David nudges his nose into Patrick’s damp hairline, finding his hands over the blanket, his breathing still uneasy.

“All kinds of days, honey. Okay?”

Patrick hums in response as a cool breeze wraps around them. 

David pulls the blanket securely over them and continues, “Just try and rest for a bit. If you can’t, we’ll figure something out.”

Patrick smiles, feeling a little more at ease. For all he does for David, his husband does just the same, if not more for him. He’s grateful for that. If Patrick’s still feeling the same hours later, he’ll go for a walk, and David will take his hand and follow, no questions asked.

But for now he leans back, growing calmer as David helps him navigate this one day of many days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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